Arundo donax
by chrysanthemumsies
Summary: In which John must relearn to play the clarinet for a national case, Sherlock decidedly grows a fetish towards short-blond-army-doctors-playing-an-instrument, and sexual tension is (probably) potent enough to kill a flutist. Or eight. **MAY BECOME RATED M IN LATER CHAPTERS!**
1. Chapter 1

_Hello! This is my first Sherlock fic, as well as my first more-than-implied-sex fic, so go easy on me! Also, my first male/male fic. Leave me alone._

_ANYWAY, any and all mistakes are my own. If you're interested in beta-ing/giving me ideas, go ahead and send me a message! I need all the help I can get. _

_Sorry if there's any terminology you don't understand! I've been a flutist for nearing six years now, very much NOT a clarinetist, so I've Googled pretty much everything I didn't (vaguely) know already. Also, I'm very-American-trying-to-sound-British, so forgive me on that front._

_But, yeah! Strap in, this is going to be a long ride. _

* * *

"It is of dire consequence that you do not fail, John. The fate of the constructional integrity of this very nation rests on your shoulders from hereon in. I expect no disappointment in the near future."

John blinked, curiously unphased, and immediately drew his eyebrows together in thought. "So, Mycroft, what you're saying is that… if I don't master an instrument that I haven't played since the _bloody eighth grade… _England as we know it is just going to cease to exist?"

Mycroft scoffed, tapping his umbrella in an almost mocking manner against the toe of his expensive shoes. "Hardly. If that were the case, don't you think I would consult with an actual professional? Do you think I'd take the time to sit here for a relaxing cuppa? No, no, this is hardly the greatest threat facing my person, let alone the country."

The order of importance he placed his problems were rather alarming, but John was nothing if not a curiously-incurious man. He cocked his head in a slight confusion. "'Hardly', you say? I don't understand. The 'constructional integrity of this very nation' is just something that we don't need to bat an eye at?"

The look Mycroft gave him, reminiscent of the far more severe expressions the man's younger brother had a liking to pulling on, was just shy of a roll of the eyes. That would cross the threshold of unprofessional, John mused with an internal eye-rolling of his own. "For the sake of your own mental well-being and several hours' worth of informing that you would bore tirelessly of past the ten-minute mark, let's just go with no, it isn't something we 'need to bat an eye at'."

John suddenly leaned forward in his chair, elbows braced precariously on his knees, and his eyes took on a taut stare. "Fine, all right, say that I take on this job proposal of yours. That I fit in, oh, just shy of _thirty years _of musical skill within a few weeks. That I become well adept enough at the clarinet to catch the eye of this shady composer of yours, that I gain access to this world-renowned concert hall and get you the information you so, so need. Why me? Why not hire a professional with that bottomless bank account of yours, or just get your previously mentioned 'insufferable brother' to learn the instrument instead? I'm sure he could master it within a day if there was something worthwhile for him on the other side."

Mycroft _humph_ed, tapping his umbrella with considerably increased pace and strength from his barely-there perch on the arm of his (currently vacant) brother's chair. He was getting irritated, John could tell, both at the situation and John's own complaints. If Sherlock were here and not at Bart's, he'd be positively grinning.

"The reason I cannot ask Sherlock of this is because he's already taking on the case. At least, as of a half-hour ago, which is precisely the reason for my presence at your flat. For the next few days he'll be preparing for his audition to 'Le Conservatoire', for a courteous heads up of the _musical _nights to come. Purely for credential's sake, as you and I both know that he doesn't need to attend the school for orthodox means.

"But he won't be able to solve this one alone, for once. No offense." The man gave John a rather fickle smile at that, not apologetic in the slightest, and John nervously nodded on in a (not) forgiveness as well as urged him to continue on. He obliged. "While he will be joining the strings section, held high in an orchestra, there's many layers to this unfortunate issue. I'll inform you of more details if you choose to take the job, and I don't doubt that my brother will answer any questions with information he's already familiarized himself with. All in all, I'm in need of a woodwind player, preferably male and of distinguished age that opens a possibility of a faux background to emplace. So far, you are a worthy candidate despite your 'rusty' and pre-beginner mastery of the instrument, as explained for now:

"You are the only man - no, _person _- that my brother has agreed to working with on this case. He is in full confidence that you'll be able to overcome this small musical impasse, and rise with him into the ranks of the orchestra and gain the information we need. It's a somewhat difficult preparation with a simple completion, and with it I can assure you that I'll owe you a favour. Not many people have the privilege to say such a thing, John."

John shook his head, not in refusal but in a sort of thinking manner, jogging his brain into kicking up its speed. "What's the case? Has there been a murder? Two murders? Any semblance of a serial killer?"

Mycroft's dark eyes glinted in a near sinister manner, the closest the man could come to 'playful'. "You're wondering why my brother took the case."

"Well, from my end, it does seem rather… strange. Trouble within an orchestra? He's refused far more interesting cases with less than a thought. It all just seems, in his words alone, 'rather _mundane'._"

He shrugged with a careless nudge of his shoulder, sliding lightly from his perch and letting out an airy sigh. "I suppose you'll have to question my brother on that particular aspect, as I'm not at liberty to, at least directly, explain at the time being. So, I'll bid you farewell. Oh!" He added in what should have been a surprised tone, though instead it came out as flat and blandly conversational. He swiped something hidden from behind the chair opposite John, a vaguely familiar casing, and set it onto the table yielding Sherlock's different experiments and strange knick-knacks. John eyed it warily, certain of what it held, and looked back up to Mycroft.

"Text me with your answer, and make sure it reaches my person before the weekend. I despise waiting, as you should be aware. Do be brief with it." John listened for the receding footsteps and the brisk open and close of the front door. Assured that Mycroft was gone, he rolled onto his feet and tentatively grabbed the case, sinking down into the couch and settling it onto his lap.

The hard plastic was covered in firm black leather, a clean emblem branded into the perfect centre. He flipped open the brass latches in synchronic time, levering the top open slowly. Five pieces of polished blackwood, untouched silver keys, gleaming rings, smooth cork. An ornate reed guard nestled into the spare concave at the bottom of the case, along with an unopened box of expensive-looking reeds and a stick of cork grease. He could glimpse the swab and polishing cloth tucked underneath it all. He closed his eyes, inhaling the clean, oak smell of the clarinet and running his callused fingers along the velvet interior. Familiar.

He snapped open his eyes and let out a shaky breath, suddenly and oddly scared of the instrument before him. He swung the top closed, flipping both latches locked with his thumbs, and slid it off his knees onto the coffee table. He leaned back into the cushions, sighing out a quiet breath, and slid his eyes closed.

"Well. That was rather anticlimactic."

John started despite himself, insides jumping at the sudden voice drawling from the entryway. He shook it off and leaned back once more, a bit more casually than before.

"How was St. Bart's? Were you able to get the… erm…?"

"The trachea? No, there were none to spare, unfortunately. I made quite certain to let Molly know that I desperately needthem."

"Flirting or threatening?"

"A bit of both, really. Mainly the latter, but I'm starting to think that she likes that even _more _than the former. Odd girl."

John didn't comment on that and scratched at a spot at the base of his neck. "You just missed your brother, you know. Just by a minute or two."

He could practically _feel _Sherlock's face twist in disgust. "I know. I could smell his flowery perfume outside as well as sense the general unease of the flat that only follows his visits. Now," he stood on the other side of the coffee table, his eyes tracing over John's body and then pointedly to the closed case, "Play."

John let out a breathy, uncertain laugh. "I haven't played the clarinet in quite a while, Sherlock. Around thirty years, in fact. Though I was rather good at it during the time being, I can't just pick it up and proceed on to play extensive sonatas composed by Tchaikovsky or Bach and the works like you could."

Sherlock scoffed in return. "Your idealism of me is beginning to dangerously border on supernatural means. While clarinet is generally considered one of the more simpler of instruments in an orchestra, I couldn't simply just 'pick it up' and know all the different fingerings and embouchure and technical means." His eyes turned skeptical, as if he were appraising a dubious concern for the first time. "You _do _remember how to put it all together, in the very least? Should I hop down to the nearest bookstore and buy you a 'Clarinet for Dumm-'"

"All right, all right," John chuckled, previous disposition gone. "Point taken. I'll at least give it a shot. But not now, I'm hungry and it's nearing sunset and I've been stuck up in the flat all day. Angelo's?"

Sherlock didn't move for a short moment, thoughtfully-narrowed eyes darting between John's face and the clarinet, and then he hummed beneath his breath. "Fine. I'll want to hear you play before the night ends, though, to see exactly what I'll have to work with for the time being."

John finished tying his shoes back on and stood, carefully rolling up the sleeves of his thin jumper. He headed towards the door. "It's gross to play clarinet after eating, you know. The reed takes on a _flavour _after a while."

Sherlock couldn't mask his disgust. "Woodwinds. Vastly unsanitary, can deliver the strangest of noises, and they are such delicate things, easily broken in an annual manner. I only have the patience for flutes, but even they rust and tarnish alarmingly easily. Now, brass, don't even get me started-"

"- and I won't. Come on, you're paying."

Sherlock let John go ahead down the stairs and gave the instrument a last, withering look, grumbling under his breath, before turning on his heel and closing the door with a careless swing of the arm in afterthought.

...

"Play."

John watched Sherlock in the mirror, head peaking out of the curtain, inky hair dripping water in tendrils onto the floor as the shower still ran on. It was something they weren't afraid to do, use the bathroom at the same time, just as long as the lower regions were properly covered. John pulled the foamy toothbrush from his mouth, throwing a pointed eye against Sherlock's immodest reflection. "This is hardly the time."

A roll of pale, colourless eyes, and the curtain swung back closed. "Obviously. I'm just reminding you so that you don't wrongfully believe that I've forgotten, or anything of the sort."

John spat into the sink, running the water and revelling in the sharp gasp that sounded from the sudden change in temperature in the shower. "Because it's not that you've been giving your opinion over the technique styles of different instruments during dinner, nor arguing the difference between South African and Scottish music styling in the cab ride, nor musing aloud of the length of a French Horn the moment we stepped into the flat." He washed out his mouth, shutting off the tap and wiping off his lips on a spare towel. "I was almost at a danger of forgetting, but you bloody made sure that I didn't, so good job. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Wait!" Sherlock called, and in a moment his arm shot out through the opening beside the curtain, strong and pale and trailing droplets in twisting patterns. "Toothbrush and paste, if you please."

John watched the appendage for a firm moment, the long, slender fingers twitching in impatientience, and reluctantly obliged. He set the objects into Sherlock's hand, thumb brushing his knuckles to close them around what was proffered, and let go only to drop his hand onto the lever alongside the loo.

He flicked his wrist and ran from the bathroom, the yelps and curses that sounded from behind him acting like music to his ears.

...

When all was said and done and Sherlock emerged from the shower, skin a bit more sensitive from the shower's small bout of icy to scalding, he came out to see John inspecting a small box, ridiculously ornate for something made of cardboard and (presumably) containing flimsy chips of carved _Arumdo domax _and plastic.

Pulling his robe closer over his bare chest, clothed below in only pants in the midst of the summer that seeped barely-there into the flat, Sherlock padded over to his chair and curved it around, facing it to the couch and to John that was perched purposefully on the edge of the cushions, turning the plastic-wrapped rectangle around in his fingers. He settled into his seat in a similar fashion as John, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled firmly together.

Sherlock watched John turn and run his eyes down his frame, a small shiver raking down his spine from being the subject of his perusal, before watching a playful twist of distaste mar John's features.

"Close your legs, Sherlock, you're nearly flashing me."

Sherlock looked down to his lap, startled, before chuckling half-heartedly under his breath with a sarcastic flick of his eyes. "It's warmer than preferable, and I'm wearing pants. I'm not the only one here taking precautions for comfort."

It was true. John wore a thin gray shirt, tight against his biceps with a v-neck cut just past the hollow of his throat and bordering the curves of his collarbones. He wore boxers, longer than what he usually adorned, and Sherlock wasn't immune to the attractive view of calf muscles, slim and tanned with sparse golden hair that he was rarely able to see, even in the most familiar of circumstances. He trailed his eyes back up to the box, and watched him pick at the plastic wrapping with his thumbnail.

"Yeah, yeah," John replied, flipping the box to pick at another corner. "Just make sure I don't get a view of something I don't necessarily want to see."

_Necessarily. _Sherlock smirked at that, flittering his eyes wrily away from the man across from him, his eyelashes catching on the damp fringe that hung limply against his forehead.

When the wrapping was torn off and carelessly littered onto the coffee table did Sherlock glance back, watching him flip open the slim box and dump out the contents.

It was alike a condom roll of reeds, the chips nestled in plastic that were slightly serrated for easy removal. There were ten in all, and John tore off the first one with precise, surgical fingers. He slid out the reed, holding it up to inspect it properly, and then promptly stuck it in his mouth.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Doesn't that go on the actual instrument?"

John set him with a light glare, obviously playful with a steely, almost smug air, and he rolled it to the corner of his mouth to talk. "You have to wet it before lining it up, that I remember. I don't know why exactly, it's something to do with having the ability to shape or _buzz _better, I'd reckon." The 'ess' sound had a heavy edge to it so that he wouldn't damage the delicate chip between his teeth. His jaw, stubbled and tense with care, was set against the thin piece of wood.

It was... satisfying to watch, Sherlock noted. John and anything that drew attention to his jaw was an aesthetically pleasing combination.

Sherlock changed his expression into something posh and arrogant, masking the former interest that might've become apparent to John's keen eyes. "Disgusting, reeds are."

"Oh, don't start up _that _again," John groaned, beginning to put the clarinet together with surprising ease for someone who hadn't played in several years. When it was all surely aligned, he took the reed, running a finger along both sides to dry it, and slid it carefully under the metal ligature that covered the mouthpiece, straightening it out and twisting the rods carefully to keep it in place. "There. Relatively simple so far, if I can remember where to put my bloody fingers."

Sherlock watched all of this carefully and analytically for future reference, as instruments other than his own area of expertice weren't formerly a concern of his. Until now. Now, he decidedly had an interest.

He watched John align his fingers along the dainty and extensive layout of the keys, only having trouble with a couple of them. When he was content with his hands, only then did he lick his lips, wetting them before sliding the clarinet, reed-down, into his mouth.

Sherlock's fingers decided to dig into the armrest of his chair at the sight, his control breaking, on their own accord.

John took a deep breath, glancing up to Sherlock, oblivious to his internal struggling, and pursued his lips around the mouthpiece.

_SQUWACK!_

All was silent for a moment, and then Sherlock was wiping at his eyes, which were red and swimming with awe and unshed tears. "What a gentle and beautiful instrument."

"Oh shut it, you berk," John exclaimed, but he was laughing. He set his lips to the mouthpiece once again, only this time he played a solid, woody note. He blipped the note by fingering a sequence of random unidentifiable sounds, something woodwinds tended to do for whatever reason, and he pulled it from his face. "Still a good sound. I was first chair in my day, though while the rest of the class was playing Ode to Joy, I was still on Mary had a Little Lamb. But I sounded damn good at it."

Sherlock lifted a bemused eyebrow, settling back into his chair. "How were you ever made first chair?"

John shrugged, noodling his fingers into impromptu key clicks once again. "Having a good sound is like a facade, I would say. It would take me a good time to learn something the others would perfect in a day or two, but when I got it, I was practically the poster child."

Sherlock smirked. "You're saying that as if you were playing with professionals at aged thirteen, John."

"Twelve, actually. I had jumped a grade in primary school."

Sherlock blinked at that. Small details, so unimportant in the bigger picture that is John Watson, still fascinated him to no end. He stored that little tidbit away, and watched John finger through what was, judging by the subtle changes in each fingering, the chromatic scale.

John noticed his curious scrutiny and, in an example of another one of John's completely rubbish deducing moments, motioned the clarinet over the coffee table. "Would you like to give it a go?"

Sherlock seemed simultaneously appalled and appeased at the question. Germs, but John's germs. The former won out, and his face scrunched up in disgust. "That's hardly the most sanitary idea you've had."

John's face remained the same, eyes focused and lips twitching. "Yeah, well, it wasn't meant to be." The clarinet was still held out to Sherlock, pristine and virtually untouched with its finish. "You know I've brushed, and I would know if my saliva was harbouring some sort of life-threatening disease. I want you play it, is all."

"Yes, and why is that precisely?"

A grin, almost wicked, flashed on John's face. "To see if you can."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, challenging, and grabbed the clarinet with as much care as he could... well, care to give. He looked down to the keys, and in a moment of sheer horror, he realised that he didn't pay attention to where John had put his fingers. He picked the most probable one he could, and put his index finger atop it. Which resulted in a chuckle from the man across from him.

_Bollocks. _

"John, could you... assist me?"

John could have argued Sherlock into using the word 'help', and Sherlock knew John knew that, but he only shook his head in (heavily assumed) fondness and padded around the table. He knelt down and aligned the clarinet properly before dealing with Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock watched John, watched him furrow his brows as he remembered where to place which fingers where while not using instinct, watched his eyelashes flutter as he accessed his recent memory, watch him wet his mouth in slight concentration. He was close, closer than normal, his face hovering slightly below Sherlock's to look down the horn at an angle.

When the fingers were properly placed and he glanced up to show Sherlock the proper lip placement on the mouthpiece, John was unphased at the proximity. Maybe a bit _too_ unphased. His breathing was halted, his limbs steady with rigidity, and his eyes determined to stay on Sherlock's lips for entirely the wrong reason, and John knew that.

Sherlock resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. _Interesting. _

"Open your mouth," John breathed, nudging the mouthpiece closer. Sherlock obliged, and when it was all settled, Sherlock dared to run his tongue along the reed. It had a light mint taste to it, above the near-overwhelmingly wood flavour.

And it was already damp. Obviously. He wished it had more of a John-like flavour, but he'd suffice. For now.

John was blushing rather dramatically, deep against his cheeks and red at the tips of his ears. He quickly arranged Sherlock's fingers into a note, assumedly the one that acted as base for all winds and brass (a concert F), and backed away.

His face even dared to become _encouraging_, past the previous embarrassment. Sherlock gave him a withering look, and then took a deep breath and arranged his lips around the reed. When he made a sound, he ripped it from his mouth, a surprised and scrunched-up expression adorning his face.

"You never told me it would _attempt to numb my lower lip, _John!"

John tilted his head, bemused. "You never asked."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, careful to keep his fingers pressed into the sequence. "Yes, because that was the first and foremost question on my mind, John."

John shrugged. Sherlock scowled and arranged his mouth once again. John went wide-eyed when Sherlock made a decent sound.

"Vibrato! Christ, Sherlock, how did you get perfect vibrato on your first try?"

"Second try," Sherlock corrected, pleasure blossoming through him from John's praise, and then cocked his head in the way he knew John liked. "Am I not supposed to have vibrato?"

"No, that's not… It's just… It took me a while to learn vibrato. It's a bit difficult with single-reeds, and you immediately play it. A natural, really."

Sherlock didn't reply to the compliment, tilting his mouth into a lopsided smile. "You speak as though you played for years, rather than a singular one."

John didn't miss a beat. "Like I said. Poster child."

There was an expectant silence, and then John stood, reaching over and snatching the clarinet from Sherlock's hands. "Enough of that. It's getting late, and I'm scheduled to be doing surgery tomorrow." He took the clarinet apart quickly, opening up a small, ornate case and slipping the reed inside. He set the case onto the table beside him and stood, rolling around his joints and popping them in comfortable stretches. He looked at Sherlock sideways, and licked his lips. "Though I know you won't heed my words, do try and get some sleep. If anything, for my sake. There's audition music on the violin that I know you feel as though you desperately need to work on, but practice only _after _I've left for work, all right?"

Sherlock watched him for a long moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, before agreeing and standing alongside him. "Yes, yes, I suppose I haven't slept in a few days. I need to keep my mind sharp for practising to take any effect on me, anyway."

John nodded something light and firm, but Sherlock could _feel_ the approval John expelled, and wanted to keep it at all costs. Sherlock tilted his lips, not quite yet a smile but not too neutral either, and spun on his heel to his bedroom.

He heard a chuckle sound somewhere behind him, along with the shuffle of feet, and the lights vanished with a _click._

* * *

_I live off of reviews. If you're interested, throw in a follow! Also posting this on Archive Of Our Own, FYI._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to all the follows, favorites, and reviews! Seeing the numbers makes me happy!_

* * *

John finished his pint, groaning at the sting and bursts of light from behind his tired, heavy lids. It had been a rough day at the surgery; two children deaths. Granted, one of them was on the wrong side of the car during a crash, and the other had a roughly 12% chance at living through the next couple months even if the surgery _had _been successful.

Still. Neither of them were even _ten bloody years old _yet. He winced at the flashes of their lifeless bodies, untouchable beneath his hands, and he waved for another drink, hoping that drunkenness could quell his angst.

"Last one," the bartender warned, gesturing to the clock. It was nearing one in the morning, and John nodded lightly, sliding over some notes to pay. After finishing his drink, John flapped his hand in what he assumed to be a double-visioned wave, and stumbled out the door of the pub.

It took him a moment to figure out which way to turn, but it's not as if he were blocking the pavement. Absolutely nobody was outside, not unsurprising given that it was late on a thursday night (or, would it be a friday morning?), and positively dreary outside. It was going to storm, John was sure.

When he stumbled into Baker Street, John squinted up to the flat, surprisingly-unsurprised that Sherlock stood in the window, light pouring from all around him. Like an angel. John waved his arms, smiling widely, and the curtain swung closed in response. He scoffed with humour into the night air.

John was just crossing the street when the door to 221 opened, quiet in regards to (the presumably sleeping) Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock emerged, feet rapidly maneuvering the stone steps, and reached John's considerable distance in a disproportionate amount of (_huge_) strides.

John tilted his head at Sherlock, as well as the two slightly more blurrier versions that bordered him. "Hey," he greeted with a smile, clasping the taller man on the bicep, all past feeling of malaise forgotten. Luckily, John didn't slur words when he was drunk, but he did however lose the filter that he prided himself on. For example, "Woah, Sherlock, have you been working out? Your arm is bloody _firm_."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, like he's been holding it in with his breath. He seemed… well, not anymore, but he _had _seemed worried. Sherlock didn't do worrying, unless for his experiments, and John was quite certain that he wasn't playing the part as one. _At the moment_, he amended.

"You're positively drunk, John. You need to get a good night's sleep, there's much to do in the morning."

John smiled dreamily, dropping his hand from Sherlock's upper arm. "I don't have work in the morning, nor next week. I reckon they took pity on me. Rough day, it was."

Sherlock perused him, read him of specific times he (didn't have the time between patients to) eat and precisely how long he spent at the bar through narrowed eyes. "I can tell. Two, was it? Both girls? Nothing you could have done to prevent it, and you know that. But you still had to get yourself drunk off your arse."

John ignored the first part, seeing as that was the whole _point _of the latter. "You haven't _seen _me drunk off my arse yet, Sherlock. And I hope you never will."

Sherlock quirked the corner of his mouth, eyebrows raising bemusedly. "Oh, really now. And why is that?"

John leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. "_Because I'll snog anyone in sight_."

And then, he popped Sherlock on the behind with a rowdy laugh.

Sherlock jumped, surprise crossing his features, before settling into something akin to bewilderment. But not that actual expression, heaven's no. A version much blander. "Okay, this seems to be my cue to be that decent flatmate you're always prattling on about. Up with you, time for bed." He flicked his eyes quickly down John's body, lingering on his leg, and then spun to John's right side. Sherlock took his good arm, and swung it over his shoulders.

John didn't get what Sherlock was trying to do, since the height difference was causing him to stumble dramatically, and that just made him depend on Sherlock's solid frame even more.

Ah. John could suddenly see the merits.

"You're a good friend," John drawled, clumsily dragging the hand that hung at Sherlock's chest up his face, jutting past his nose and jabbing him in the eye.

"Hey-!" Sherlock protested, wincing slightly as John knotted his fingers into his curls, jostling their heads together affectionately.

"Great friend. The best, really. The _best _friend." He was pulled up the steps and pushed through the doorway, stumbling into the stairs to the flat whenever Sherlock released him to close and lock the door. "I can walk, you know. I'm not invalid. Well, not _today, _anyway." He giggled at that for an unknown reason, and then winced as he leaned his bad shoulder against the wall for leverage.

"Idiot. This is why I was helping you, your limp is acting up from stress and the incoming weather is affecting your shoulder." Sherlock returned to his spot beside John, wrapping his arm around his waist once again and pulling him up along with him.

They only made it up a few steps when Sherlock realised that John giving no effort was really making it difficult to pull him up the steep stairs. With a sigh and a silent apology to his future self, he knocked out John's knees with his right arm and pulled him up into his arms. A string of profanities curled from his lips at the strain, but he began braving the summit once again.

"Woah! Sherlock, y-you… Christ!" John scrambled in his arms, flailing drunkenly as Sherlock grunted in response. "Y-you're too… this is emasculating!"

"Oh, please," Sherlock growled begrudgingly, trudging up the steps with heavy effort. "You've drank enough alcohol to alert London of your endless masculinity, so just _let _me carry you up the stairs before your lack of sobriety injures the both of us!"

John glared up at him, arms crossed. "You're more likely to fall while carrying me, I don't see how this is any better."

"Wrong, as per the usual. Because you were too exhausted to put in the effort, your feet catching on the steps meant more upper-body work for me to attempt and dislodge them each time. I was dangerously close to pulling something in my back, which would be overall unfortunate for a plethora of reasons. I'm distributing my - _our _- weight more evenly now." He spat out all of this rapidly in one exhale, tendons straining in his arms and neck. "Obvious."

John was (oddly) quiet for a few moments, mulling Sherlock's reasoning around in his head, and then he let out a sigh and reached up to thread his fingers into Sherlock's curls once again. "Best friend," he muttered quietly, lolling his head against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock froze, one foot on the step behind him, looking down at John in unmasked surprise. He furrowed his eyebrows, mouth opening and closing as he fumbled for words. He already knew that he was John's best friend, and vice-versa, that much was clear.

But the way he had said it, with such underlying tenderness and raw emotion, it made Sherlock suddenly have a _desperate _need to know more. To peel back every layer of John Watson, to lay his mind bare until there was nothing left to deduce, nothing left to observe. _What did he mean by that? And why am I so curious about it?_

And then the answer, oh so obvious, shone brilliantly like fireworks behind his eyes, deep into his mind like it were New Years and the countdown had finally, _finally, _reached zero.

He wanted to _consume _John Watson.

He wanted to take him apart brick by brick and then put him back together, wanted to count the missing pieces in his structure and fill them in with chips of his own. He wanted to hold on tight and never let go, never unlock his fingers from John's ugly jumper and he never wanted John to release his hair. He wanted to drown into this man, and instead of pulling himself from his depths he wanted to _drink _him in until there was nothing left of him, there was only Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and their essence wasn't of one or the other, no, it was twined together and inseparable and _infinite._

And he was _terrified_.

He hurried up the rest of the steps, opening the door and walking them sideways through the threshold. He looked down at John, watched him doze against his chest, and he pressed his lips together in firm determination. This problem was going to need time, silence, and nicotine.

With a final sweep of his eyes around the flat, Sherlock marched them both into his bedroom, and closed the door behind him with the heel of his shoe.

…

_Pain._

John groaned as he awoke, his brain suddenly too thick for his skull and the light too bright from behind his eyelids. His shoulder ached, throbbing in time with his head, and he knew that he'd have to get up eventually. He made another pathetic sound at the notion, but all the same flung back the covers and propped himself up onto his forearms. He peeled his eyes open, brow abidingly furrowed, and was surprised to find that it was still nighttime.

And also surprised that he wasn't in his bedroom.

And, lastly, very much surprised that his flatmate was sitting in a chair that faced the bed, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes staring intensely at John, looking as if he were trying to descramble a difficult riddle, muscles still and taught as if he were a statue.

"Yeah, no, not creepy at all," John croaked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so he was parallel to Sherlock, running a tired hand through his hair before blinking at his surroundings. "Am I… Is this _your _room?"

"Quiet," Sherlock ordered, his voice rough with disuse, and John saw that his arm was patched up with nicotine.

He cocked his head, ignoring Sherlock's command, and squinted to his eyes once again. "Is there a case? Is this…" He yawned, the movement only jarring his head even more. He cut it off with a pained breath. "Is it that orchestra case? What's the problem?"

Sherlock didn't answer, as expected, and John took notice of his appearance. He wore his day clothing, only different than the day before. He had changed, then. And his hair was already gelled and teeth brushed. John took a moment to find the clock, and stifled another groan.

"Sherlock… why are you dressed and made-up to leave, all the while watching me sleep, at _four-thirty in the morning_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh, breaking his expression and leaning back in the chair. "If you had looked around the room for just a few more seconds, or minutes due to your state of mind, you would understand and wouldn't be _talking _right now."

"Room… Yes, why _am _I in your room?"

"Think, John."

John thought. Memories of last night, of getting drunk and meeting Sherlock into the street, grabbing his… And then, Sherlock had _carried_… John had the grace to blush, and mutter a quick apology, which Sherlock had waved off just as quick.

"I didn't have the strength nor patience to carry you up _another _set of stairs, so I just settled you here. It wasn't a problem."

John nodded slowly, rubbing his hands down his still-clothed thighs, and glanced around the room as Sherlock had oh-so-kindly suggested. He had been in Sherlock's room before, so he didn't dwell on the appearance, and his eyes landed on a small pile of luggage, already filled and stacked against the wall beside the bedroom door.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"_We," _Sherlock corrected sharply, "Are leaving. A cab is to pick us up in twenty minutes to bring us to the airport, so I suggest you begin getting ready now."

John shook his head carefully, a tired smile tugging at his lips. "You do realise that a normal person would ask, or at least _tell _me in advance that we're leaving."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "I did. Right now. This is me telling you 'in advance', as we're hardly boarding the plane at this very second."

"Sherlock," John warned, though it lacked its usual luster. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, and looked back up expectantly. "You know what I mean."

Sherlock huffed in response, deflating in his chair and crossing his arms childishly. After a moment he closed off his expression and flickered his eyes up to John's face in slight contemplation, before letting out a sigh and leaning forward once more in a mirror of his earlier position, only he wasn't in the chair anymore and his hands were braced on the side of the bed, bordering John's hips.

"John," he murmured, eyes suddenly wide and searching against John's face. His voice was deep, the name rumbling from his lips. "Come to Paris with me."

Maybe it was the way he said it, with an almost-there pleading tone in his voice. Or the way he looked at John, earnest and hopeful, his black hair (in need of a trim) contrasting his eyes a more vibrant, more piercing shade of ice. Or the way he said it, the wording reminiscent of a prince, asking his secret lover to run away with him (okay, that analogy was rather not good, but John blamed it on the fact that he wasn't completely sober yet). Whatever it was, whatever act he was putting on this time, was cranked up a notch into something that most definitely had a near-hundred-percent success rate.

And John wasn't as immune as he'd once thought.

"Okay," John answered in an embarrassingly small voice, eyes withering from Sherlock's face to watch the ground as he clumsily stood up. Sherlock let go of the bed and stepped back to let him, usual expression back in place albeit with a slight, smug smile.

_Arrogant bastard. _

John stopped in the doorway, turning back in lieu of an exasperating realisation. "Sherlock… if the cab is coming in twenty minutes, why didn't you, say, wake me up a tad earlier to allow me time to shower and pack and all that?"

Sherlock frowned, looking up from the phone he had just unplugged from the wall. "Fifteen now. And I did wake you earlier. I turned on the lamp a half-hour ago, it's hardly my fault that it took you that long to awake by your own means. Besides," he added in afterthought, looking back down to his mobile's screen, "I've already packed your bag up. All you need to do is ready yourself."

John furrowed his eyebrows, opening his mouth as if to say something, but he closed it and shook his head in familiar bewilderment before padding off to his room.

Sherlock smiled.

…

Fifteen minutes, a shower, and a couple aspirin later, John was in the cab, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window while his flatmate tapped something into his phone by his side. As it would take some time to reach the airport, John figured that this was as good a time as any for some answers.

"Why are we going to France?"

"'Le Conservatoire de Paris'," Sherlock answered with a flawless accent, not looking up from his mobile. "To join this orchestra, I need to have convincing credentials. I'm auditioning into this school, and (as I'm sure I'll be accepted), I'm taking their prestigious violinist course."

It didn't add up. "Why do you need to go to Paris? Why not Guildhall, that's a convincing and well-known school just around the corner. It would even do a better job, talking music credentials."

"Well, due to your _blog," _Sherlock drawled, enunciating the last part with a sour taste, "I'm rather well-known here, in name _and_ appearance. My background is that of a French child prodigy, who played violin relentlessly throughout his youth before exploring the world for several years, like he'd always dreamed. He's just returned home and, hearing of the orchestra, wants to settle down and go to school to make something of his talent at the violin, then move to England and join." He said all this while typing something that was surely very much unrelated into his phone, voice monotone. John closed his eyes, shifting his head to another cool spot on the glass, and let out a near-silent hiss at the feeling.

"Will you be changing your appearance, then?" John asked after a moment, in remembrance of Sherlock's words. An irritated sigh at his side, but it wasn't quite aimed at John.

"Yes, unfortunately. Because Mycroft has a sick sense of humour, I have to take up a 'dark and brooding' vibe, complete with turtlenecks and desaturated colours, black combat boots being my preferred footwear." Sherlock looked up at that, eyes incredulous and voice whining to John. "He's having me _straighten _my _hair, _John! Do you know how long it'll be?"

John laughed at that, breath fogging the window. "I've an idea, I've seen your hair wet from the shower before. Just use pins to pull the front half back, or gel it." John stifled a second laugh at another thought. "Should I buy you some some headbands or pretty bows, then?"

"Not. Funny."

"Hilarious, actually." John nudged himself off the window, finding Sherlock's eyes in pre-dawn darkness, and grinned. "You in a turtleneck with long hair? It'll make my day, I assure you, so thank you in advance."

"Yeah? Well you're not going to be good old jumper-wearing John Watson, neither," Sherlock said in spite, pocketing his phone and animatedly waving his hands around. "'Ian S. Lewis', former member of the U.S. Army. Ambushed in enemy territory, though you soon orchestrated an escape, saving over half of your squad. Injured in the process. Sent home, young with no ambition, and was shipped away by your worried parents to live with your rich aunt in Venice. There, amidst all the fine music and famous composers, you took a liking for clarinet. You moved back to the States, somewhere south, and spent your days in a successful jazz band. Until now, that is." He said all this matter-of-fact, straightening the cuff of his silk button-up. He grew a wry smile. "You enjoy expensive suits, and long walks on the beach. Quite the romantic, really, with poetry and rose petals and chocolate with wine, though that's actually no differe-"

"Oh, shut it," John cut in, grinning at the last bit. "Ian Lewis," he repeated, letting the name settle onto his tongue, and he turned towards Sherlock, back leaning against the door. "Quite the American name, if I've ever heard one. And yours?"

Sherlock turned oddly quiet, fingers tampering with his cuffs with more fervor. John narrowed his eyes, clicking his tongue with the suspicious raise of his brows. "Is there something you haven't told me, Sherlock?"

"Oh, John, there are many things I haven't told you these past years, how naive of you. You'll have to be more specific."

"_Sherlock._"

"Oh, all right," he huffed, dropping his hands back onto his lap. "My faux name is Raphael, if it's _so _important."

John furrowed his eyebrows, somewhat taken aback. He was expecting something hilariously extravagant, given the man's reaction when asked, but Raphael didn't exactly live up. It was somewhat unusual, and quite pretty, so it fit Sherlock rather nicely, but…

"Raphael Cousture-Lewis."

Oh. _Oh._

"Sherlock, did you neglect to tell me that we're-"

"-married? Obviously not, as I'm telling you _now_. Do keep up."

John chuckled, bewildered, and jostled Sherlock's leg with a blunt kick. "Us being married should have been mentioned in the _beginning, _Sherlock. Is it even necessary?"

Sherlock swatted John's foot away, pushing it back off the seat. "The composer of the orchestra is _gay, _John. Even part of a few LGBT clubs, so for us 'sticking it to society' and getting married will definitely earn us his favour. It also gives us a reason to be seen talking together (about the case), and sneak off time and again (to steal what we need from his office). In comparison to it not even being an option, it _is _quite necessary."

"Yeah, alright, I understand," John said, even though he kind of didn't at the same time. "It's just that… well… it's a bit ridiculous, you know?"

Sherlock watched him expectantly, setting his brows and wordlessly urging him to continue. John chuckled nervously and cleared his throat, feeling the tips of his ears begin to heat up.

"Well, I mean… us! Together! _Married, _ 's just… despite what all of London seems to speculate about our relationship, it's pretty far down the list of 'Things that are likely to occur', just under 'Elton John releasing a rap album'. It's just… _mad!_ Absolutely, positively, raving mad." He let out a short giggle at that, nudging at Sherlock's knee with his foot once more. His leg was knocked off rather aggressively this time, and the laughter died off.

"You'll have to change that opinion if we are to be convincing when the time comes, so I'll suggest keeping quiet until then." His voice was colder than normal, and he turned most of his body away from John so he could look - no, _glare - _out the window. Oh, christ, he was _brooding _now.

John mulled back over his words, and realised that they may have come across a bit… offensive. It shouldn't have bothered Sherlock, it wouldn't under normal circumstances, but for some reason, now it did.

_For some reason._

John rolled his shoulders and turned back around, settling correctly back into the seat and crossing his ankles. He sighed, hands twitching at the sudden, familiar tension, and searched the sky for clues of an incoming dawn.

* * *

_Again, don't worry if you see this on AO3, I'm posting it there too. As always, R&R and send some ideas my way!_


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